by Aimee Molloy
Ndey had the facts to support this claim. Over the course of several sessions, she provided evidence that, like men, women were granted many protections under several international human rights instruments. In 1979, she explained, the United Nations General Assembly adopted the Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women, or the CEDAW. This treaty, which had officially gone into effect fifteen years earlier—on September 3, 1981—was the first global document to specifically address the rights of women and was often thought of as the first international bill of rights for women. As the most comprehensive and detailed international agreement to seek the advancement of women, it established rights in areas not previously subject to international standards and assured the protection of women’s civil, political, social, economic, and cultural rights.
The CEDAW would become one of the most highly ratified international human rights conventions, having the support of 186 nations, including Senegal, which signed the convention in 1980 and put it into effect in 1985. By accepting the declaration, the government of Senegal agreed to incorporate the principle of equality between men and women and to ensure the elimination of all acts of discrimination against women.
When the women heard this, their confused laughter crackled throughout the room like hot sticks on a cooking fire and the discussion became spirited. After class, the women gathered to further discuss the information. As part of the Tostan education program, they had committed to adopt an ndey-dikke (a friend not enrolled in the class) with whom they would share what they learned in each session. This connection was a key element of their Tostan classes, and the women began to talk to their ndey-dikkes about what they had learned. Like them, they had a hard time believing this information could be true, and often the response they heard was the same. “Even if what you’re saying is true,” a friend of Kerthio said to her one day, “even if we really do have the same guarantee of human rights as men, how do we claim them?”
OVER THE NEXT FEW months, despite the conflict they felt and their lingering fears about doing so, the women of the Tostan class began to seriously question the practice of the tradition. In the first Tostan sessions, they had come to an agreement on their dream for the future of their community—a vision of peace, health, well-being, prosperity, and respect. Was the tradition something that would help them achieve this dream? if not, was it something they should consider ending in their village? Now that they understood the ways in which the practice could harm their daughters, now that they knew of their own rights, and their daughters’ rights to live in health and be free from violence, could they claim to be women of peace and still adhere to this custom?
They went first to the village imam. He confirmed what they’d learned in their Tostan class: important religious scholars had attested to the fact that despite what they had always believed, the tradition was not a religious obligation under Islam and was not even mentioned in the Koran. Before long, with this information, it became clear that a bold decision was beginning to form among the group. Every woman of the Tostan class agreed not to cut their daughters that April, the month during which the cutting typically took place in their community.
They then agreed to go further. After all, if any decision was to be made, it had to be made as a village. For only a unified and collective decision would keep a girl from being ostracized as a bilakoro.
The campaign to convince every woman of the village, even those not enrolled in the Tostan class, to forego cutting their daughters, was not easy. Over the next few months, the thirty-five women—Kerthio, Aminata, Tene, and before long even Maimouna—went from neighborhood to neighborhood, sharing the information they’d learned. They performed short plays, had long discussions about the knowledge they’d received, and welcomed dialogue. After each meeting, they made the same request: forego all cutting this April. Join us in these efforts and help protect our daughters.
As the month of April 1997 slowly crept by, Kerthio and the other women waited to see what would happen, feeling nervous but hopeful. When the month passed and no preparations were made for the cutting ceremonies, the women of Malicounda Bambara knew that perhaps they were truly on their way to doing what they’d never once believed possible: abandoning the tradition for good.
2
Xabaar bu Mag bi (Breaking the Silence)
Maimouna Traore spoke first. “As the president of the women’s group here in Malicounda Bambara, and on behalf of our entire Tostan class, I’d like to greet you by your first name and your last name.”
Molly Melching had always loved this way of addressing people, customary throughout Senegal. Greeting people by their first name acknowledges them as an individual, by their last acknowledges their entire extended family. Maimouna went on to wish peace for the members of Molly’s family—her twelve-year-old daughter, Zoé, her sister, Diane, her mother in Arizona, and her father, long since deceased.
Returning Maimouna’s greeting in Wolof so perfect it didn’t reveal her American upbringing, Molly tried her best to conceal the hesitation she’d been feeling over the last twenty-four hours, since she’d received the news that the women of this village had made a truly remarkable decision: to abandon the centuries-old practice of female genital cutting. The decision, she’d been told, had started to take shape eight months earlier and was the result of extensive discussion and heated debate among the women of the village. Earlier that morning, as Molly slowly steered her creaky Land Cruiser down the bumpy road toward Malicounda Bambara, scaring the goats and chickens aside, she thought back to her decision a year earlier to include a discussion about the risks associated with female genital cutting in a new Tostan series of classes, or module, on women’s health. She had been extremely tentative. Having lived in Senegal for twenty years, she had spent much time in villages with traditions similar to those of Malicounda Bambara. She knew it was forbidden for anyone, but especially people from outside the practicing ethnic group, to even mention the practice of female genital cutting. As far as she knew, every effort to raise awareness about the practice in Senegal—from health education agents to development workers—had led to few results and had sometimes offended those who practiced it. So to now hear that these women had dared to speak of the tradition’s potential harm in front of their entire village and were prepared to speak of it in front of an American woman, to think they may have truly decided to end the practice? It was unfathomable.
After all the proper greetings had been exchanged, Molly attempted to ease into the point of the meeting. “I understand the women of Malicounda Bambara have started a soap-making project to earn income,” Molly said.
Maimouna looked perplexed. “Yes, but we don’t want to talk about that,” she said. “We’ve invited you here to speak about our decision to end the practice of female genital cutting in our village.”
Such directness was unusual, and Molly did her best to hide her surprise. “Can you explain how this has come about?” she asked.
The women of the Tostan class began to speak at once, each of them competing to share the events of the last several months. Finally, Kerthio raised her hand to speak. She explained how overjoyed the women of Malicounda Bambara had been two years earlier when the Tostan program first arrived in their village.
“Each of us has long craved the information we’ve learned in our classes,” she said. “But when Ndey first brought up the tradition, we were speechless, many quite offended. While we feared the consequences of speaking about it aloud, Ndey persisted. Without ever making us feel defensive or ashamed, without ever suggesting we alter or abandon any of our traditions, she explained that the majority of women around the world do not practice female genital cutting, which surprised us.”
Many women nodded in agreement.
“Ndey also helped us understand what happens to our bodies when they are cut,” Kerthio continued. “Nobody had explained that to us before. In our culture, women are not supposed to look at our bodies. The pictures and di
agrams Ndey made available were the first glimpse of a woman’s body most of us were ever given. Of course this information made us begin to think differently, to question the practice.” She paused. “But nothing would have changed were it not for our new understanding of human rights and a discussion of our responsibilities in relation to those rights. There was no going back after that. It was this knowledge that made us confident in our right to choose for ourselves what happens to our bodies, to preserve our bodies as they are without changes. And we feel confident we can defend this decision if necessary.”
When Kerthio finished speaking, others continued. One after another, they shared with Molly their experiences of the last few months, of having to resolve their long-held beliefs about the importance of the tradition and the knowledge they were receiving. Some admitted they had, at times, felt uneasy about its disadvantages and described their slow realization that, as Ndey explained, the pain, hemorrhaging, infection, and problems during childbirth were not the result of bad spirits, as they had thought, but rather of being cut with an unsterile razor blade or knife by an elderly woman with no medical training. They spoke at length about how they had never been approached about the tradition in this way before. The class discussion had been without judgment, focused only on imparting information about human rights and the tradition’s potential health consequences. The decision to stop the practice had come solely from the women themselves.
THE NEXT DAY MOLLY called Samir Sobhy, the UNICEF representative based in Dakar. Tostan had been receiving support from the local UNICEF office since 1988, and Molly had developed a great respect for Samir. He was as surprised as she had been to hear what was happening in Malicounda Bambara.
“It’s important, Molly, that the women speak publicly about this and share the news of their decision with as many Senegalese as possible,” he said. “They need to tell others what they have learned and why they’ve made this choice.” He suggested that they invite journalists to Malicounda Bambara to speak to the women of the Tostan class.
Molly was hesitant. “I don’t know, Samir. To stop the practice is one thing, but to speak publicly about it? It’s as extraordinary as it is delicate. As you can imagine, this might not be a popular decision. I’m worried that going public will bring them ridicule and harsh criticism from those who continue to practice.”
“Molly, if these women were strong enough to make this incredible decision on their own, they are strong enough to defend their position before journalists.”
Molly returned to the village to ask the women their opinions on the matter. The class sat in silence for several minutes. “I can leave and give you time to think about this,” Molly said. “I know that it is a critical decision, and you should take your time.”
Maimouna rose from her chair, her voice fully filling the space around the women. “Where we once had fear we now have courage, because we have been given knowledge,” she said. “We know our rights and the rights of all women. We have the right to dignity and the confidence to change customs if they do not bring us that dignity.” She paused and reached down to take Molly’s hand into her own. “We have left the darkness, and we now live in light. Bring the journalists. We are ready.”
A FEW WEEKS LATER, on the morning of July 31, 1997, the thirty-five women of the Tostan class gathered in the public square in Malicounda Bambara. Since before the sun rose, the women had been readying the village for the twenty journalists traveling to see them in just a few more hours. A large cooking fire had been started in the freshly swept courtyard, the water put on to ready the rice. Their boubous, the long traditional dresses worn by Senegalese women, were starched so stiffly they barely moved in the early morning breeze. By eleven that morning the aroma of simmering vegetables and fish filled the steamy air, and Kerthio nervously gathered her Tostan classmates for one last rehearsal of the theater they’d prepared. One by one, the women reviewed their roles as well as the information on human rights they’d been studying to better explain, and possibly defend, the brave decision they were about to announce.
Meanwhile, Molly stood anxiously before her closet in her home in Thiès and, with the help of her daughter, Zoé, combed through her own collection of boubous, looking for the most fitting choice for the occasion.
“This one?” Zoé asked, pulling out a blue boubou with a matching pagne.
“Perfect,” Molly said, holding it up to her tall frame while Zoé took a stack of Molly’s bracelets and slipped them over her wrists.
An hour later, as the bus Molly had arranged for the journalists lumbered down the path toward Malicounda Bambara, Molly slowly let out a long breath, realizing her relief at seeing the women of the Tostan class gathered in waiting, knowing she hadn’t simply imagined it all. Despite the fact that she and the women of the Malicounda Bambara Tostan class had been preparing for weeks for this day, Molly couldn’t help but question if it would really happen, if something like this were truly possible.
The bus pulled to a stop in the village square. Kerthio led the journalists to special seats under the large neem tree, where they joined several national government representatives who had come to witness the event. When everyone was comfortably seated, the village chief opened the meeting and the village imam said a prayer for all those who had come to visit them. Maimouna then greeted the guests.
“Salaam maaleekum,” she began. “We are very happy to receive you today and tell you about a very important decision our Tostan class and members of our community have made, that of ending a tradition of cutting our young girls. It was a decision that was not easy, because our respected ancestors handed this practice down to us all the way from Mali, the country of our origin.”
The class then performed the theater they’d prepared, and throughout it Molly could sense the women’s nervousness; it wasn’t so long ago that many of them wouldn’t have felt comfortable even speaking in public, let alone performing in front of a crowd. When they were finished, Kerthio stood to speak.
“We once believed the tradition to be a religious obligation, but we now know it is not,” she said. “We once believed it caused no health problems, and we now know it does. As women, we once believed we had no choice but to continue the practice. We now know we have the right to question any practice that brings harm or health problems to our community. We have made the decision to abandon this practice together and are proud of the choice we have made.”
When Kerthio finished speaking, Maimouna stood and walked slowly to the center of the circle. With her shoulders held back, her head lifted high, she said the words Molly knew she’d been quietly rehearsing:
“From this day forward, we, the women of Malicounda Bambara, pledge that none of our daughters, and none of our daughters’ daughters, will be cut. We stand by our decision, and we’ve invited you so that we may finally break through the silence, to publicly say no, to choose health and well-being for all of our daughters and granddaughters.”
As Maimouna spoke, Molly felt the breath catch in her throat. She looked around the circle of chairs, at the women of the Tostan class gathered under the tree, perfectly aware of the significance of these words and of the fact that these thirty-five women had somehow found the courage to be perhaps the first African women to stand up publicly and break a centuries-old silence.
Around her, the women rose from their chairs and collected in the center of the circle. As they began to dance for their guests, Molly allowed the emotions she felt to wash through her. She was proud that her organization—the fruits of many years of hard work and careful thought, of a deep commitment to the women of Senegal—had played a role in prompting this profoundly brave and historic act. She tried her best to ignore the other emotion she was feeling: worry. She suspected that many of the women’s relatives would accuse them of being influenced by Westerners and suspect that they had been paid to make such an announcement. She also knew the risk these women were taking. She knew they might be shunned and insulted, or viewed as unlovin
g, cruel mothers harming their daughters’ chances of ever getting married or having a secure future. But their decision was born of the opposite desire: to allow their daughters to live in health, to enrich their lives. She’d always been one to look on the bright side of things, to try to focus on the possible through even the most impossible situations, and Molly chose at that moment to believe that what she was witnessing was not the end of anything. It was just the beginning.
After all, wasn’t it possible that this courageous act would be met with respect, that it might even be replicated in the hundreds of other villages of Senegal where Tostan classes were in progress? Couldn’t this decision, and the choice to make it public, play a part in shifting the social consciousness of similar communities, possibly renegotiating a centuries-old, harmful, and deeply entrenched cultural practice?
Kerthio came to stand in front of her. Taking Molly’s hand, she led her from her chair and into the center of the circle, to join them in dance. As the questions swirled through Molly’s head as rapidly as her long, blue boubou swirled circles around her sandaled feet, the women of the Tostan class were discreetly watching her with a few questions of their own. How had this exuberant American woman arrived here in their West African village and found a way to instill them with the courage and the confidence they needed to alter the destiny, and guarantee the health, of hundreds—perhaps thousands—of girls and women?
3
Tawféex (Coming into Her Own)
Dakar, 1974
What do you mean the exchange program’s been called off?” Molly said into the phone a few hours after first landing in Dakar.
